Kill Call (18 page)

Then he reached a point where the terrain sloped towards him on all sides, rough ground calloused with rocks and grimy with dead bracken. It seemed to him that the landscape had caught him up, and now held him in its grubby palm, like an insect it meant to crush.

On the ridge of the slope above him, a single hawthorn seemed to writhe in the fog drifting past its branches. For a few moments, Philip could do nothing but listen to the silence, his senses baffled by the absence of noise. It was as if he’d gone suddenly deaf, or someone had turned off the sound in the world around him.

Trying to make some contact with his senses, he held his hands up to his face. The smell of Parma Violets, and a single drop of blood.

He came to a low fence and decided to step over it, rather than casting backwards and forwards to find a gate or stile. A moment later, he was falling.

16

Journal of 1968

Living underground could have its advantages, I suppose. You’re away from the wind and rain, which is something to be thankful for up here in the hills. But the drawbacks can be fairly serious.

I remember there was always a musty smell, as if something had died in there already. No matter what we tried, there wasn’t a thing we could do about the smell. Well, the ventilation was bad – just this shutter thing in the end wall, and another in the toilet. Precious little air to breathe.

And the smell was all my fault, according to Les. Mister high-and-mighty Number One never took the damp as an excuse, or bad ventilation, or the fact I had nothing to use except what I could carry on my back.

It was my job to haul up the bucket, too, with bright blue Elsan slopping about over my head, terrified every second that the thing would tip in the shaft and come right down on top of me. Les wouldn’t even let Jimmy help me with the bucket. He said there were three jobs, and the sanitary arrangements were my responsibility, since I was the youngest. ‘Sanitary arrangements’ – that’s the way he talked. Jimmy and me, we called it something quite different.

Les had more important things to do, of course. He was saving the world, was Les. A big bloody hero in a hole in the ground.

Well, we were all fighting for freedom, in our own way. It was the age of liberation, after all. Or so we were told. There wasn’t much liberation in our part of the world. Just the same old attitudes, the same instinct to condemn, the implacable willingness to destroy other people’s lives. Whatever happened to ‘He that is without sin …?’

I suppose those cold, damp walls were supposed to protect us. But really, they could just as easily have been a prison. And, you know what? If I’d been in prison, I might have had more luck with my cell mates.

Even now, I always see Jimmy’s face. I see it as clear as my own reflection when I look in the mirror. There were the three of us, up on top in the daylight. And him, down there in the dark, alone. Just a single shaft of light, falling on his face, gleaming on his glasses.

And then the falling, falling … It seemed to take so long, yet it must have been over in a second. His skull cracked like an egg.

One down. Two to go.

17

Thursday

Diane Fry had never quite got used to stepping out of the real world, a world full of living, breathing people, into the cold, sterile environment of the mortuary. The postmortem room was all stainless steel and grey tiles, the smell of disinfectant barely even competing with the odour of carved flesh and exposed internal organs. Whenever she entered these doors, it was the smell that entered her soul.

The Home Office pathologist, Dr Juliana van Doon, was a cool customer herself. Fry supposed you had to be that way, to work in a place like this. For a while, there had been rumours that she was in a relationship with one of the senior CID officers in E Division, but the talk had died down. These days, Mrs van Doon was starting to look tired, perhaps slightly worn around the edges. The skin of her arms looked a little dry, the hair tucked behind her ears was in need of a colour rinse.

‘We have here a well-nourished Caucasian male; physical condition matches the given age of forty-four,’ said the pathologist briskly, when Fry called in on her way to West Street that morning. ‘Height one hundred and eighty-nine centimetres. That’s a fraction over six feet, for the metrically challenged.’

‘Oh, thank you,’ said Fry. ‘That’s a help.’

The pathologist’s tone made her tense up. It sounded like a challenge, and there was nothing wrong with that to start the day, in Fry’s book. For some reason, she and Mrs van Doon had never really hit it off. Maybe it was something Fry had done herself when she first arrived in E Division, but the hostility had never been far below the surface. Fine, if that was the way she wanted it.

‘His weight is eighty-eight kilos.’

‘Mmm. Fourteen stone?’

‘Very good, DS Fry.’

‘Actually, I was educated entirely in metres and kilograms. But I’ve learned to do the conversion the other way.’

‘A triumph of our modern education system,’ said the pathologist.

Fry gritted her teeth, but stayed calm. She tried to concentrate on the individual whose postmortem she was attending. The important person in all of this – the victim. A glance at the body on the stainless-steel table showed her that he was carrying a bit of surplus body fat, but his muscles were reasonably well toned. He had a fading tan that stopped at the waistband line. A holiday abroad not too long ago. His hair was dark, with hardly a speck of grey to be seen. Now that the area had been shaved and cleaned, the damage to the skull was very evident.

‘Strictly speaking, eighty-eight kilos for a man measuring six feet in height is classed as overweight,’ said the pathologist. ‘But he didn’t seem to have had any problems. The heart is sound. An active occupation, perhaps?’

‘He was a businessman,’ said Fry. ‘A company director.’

Dr van Doon shrugged. ‘A sport would have helped to keep him fit.’

Fry thought of how far Rawson had managed to sprint over rough ground when the need arose. It was said that fear gave you wings, but a lot of men of his age would have been doubled up with stomach cramp after fifty yards.

‘I imagine he didn’t smoke either,’ said the pathologist. ‘We can usually tell that pretty quickly when they arrive in here.’

‘Do we have a cause of death?’ asked Fry.

‘Oh, that.’ With a click of her fingers, Dr van Doon moved to the head of the table. ‘For once, Detective Sergeant, your first guess is almost certainly the correct one.’

‘His head was smashed in.’

‘If you want to be technical. I’ve also heard it referred to as an open compound fracture of the skull. Also present are severe scalp lacerations, some loose bone fragments, and part of the skull has been depressed into the brain, causing a cerebral contusion and serious haemorrhaging.’

‘There was quite a lot of blood at the scene,’ said Fry.

The pathologist looked up. ‘That would be the scalp. It bleeds like a swamp, even from a minor laceration. Lots of nice, thick blood vessels in the scalp. No, the fatal damage is internal.’

‘How quickly would he have died?’

‘Very quickly, if he was unlucky. But you can survive for a surprisingly long time with an injury of this kind. Prompt medical attention would have made a big difference.’

‘It appears that he might have collapsed after the initial attack, then come round and run a few hundred yards across a field before he finally died.’

‘Perfectly possible. Though I would imagine he was staggering rather than running. The human body does have a surprising capacity for physical activity when the brain is fatally damaged.’

Fry was starting to feel a need for fresh air.

‘Can we get an idea of what caused the damage?’

‘Well, we’ve pieced the shattered bone back together, and the area has been photographed under a range of lighting sources. I think you might have a chance of identifying the weapon from the pattern of the depression.’

‘Excellent.’

‘I hoped you might think so.’

Fry looked at the body again. She was still no nearer to knowing what Patrick Rawson had been doing at the barn on Longstone Moor when he met his killers.

‘Is there any sign of sexual intercourse prior to death?’

The pathologist gave her a look of distaste. ‘You have all the best ideas, don’t you, Sergeant?’

Fry returned her stare. ‘That’s something we have in common, then.’

‘Well, the answer is “no”.’

‘Thank you.’

Cooper sat at his desk in the CID room, watching Gavin Murfin studying himself in a hand mirror, rubbing his fingers over his cheeks.

‘What are you doing, Gavin?’ asked Cooper.

‘Wondering whether I should grow a beard,’ said Murfin. ‘It’s such a pain, shaving in the morning, and it’s getting quite fashionable again. What do you think? Would it suit me?’

Cooper looked at him critically. He had some sympathy with the idea. His own electric shaver always seemed to leave a dark shadow that had turned into stubble by evening. If he left off shaving for a day, he looked like a dosser within twenty-four hours. Great for going undercover.

‘Gavin, you’d look like Vincent van Gogh,’ he said. ‘Except your hair’s the wrong colour and you’ve got too many ears.’

Murfin sighed and put the mirror away. ‘Thanks for the advice.’

Fry came through the door briskly, like a woman who had already started the day with a series of minor triumphs.

‘Morning, Gavin. Anything happening?’

‘Yes, Deborah Rawson’s brother has been on local TV news in the West Midlands this morning,’ said Murfin, winking at Cooper.

‘Doing what?’ said Fry.

‘Paying tribute to his brother-in-law. He says he was a dearly loved husband, highly respected by his friends and business colleagues alike, and he will be a great loss to the community in Sutton Coldfield – I quote.’

‘The press will be chasing us for a statement on what progress we’ve made in the enquiry,’ said Cooper.

Murfin nodded. ‘They’ve been chasing already. Mr Hitchens has dealt with some requests from the press office this morning.’

‘But we can’t even confirm it’s a murder enquiry until we get the postmortem report.’

‘That won’t bother the press. Anyway, West Midlands are sending us up a tape of the interview.’

Fry looked at the juniors, DCs Becky Hurst and Luke Irvine. They had been hanging on Murfin’s words as if he was some kind of oracle. But, under Fry’s glare, they became busy with their work.

‘What is this thing about paying tribute to victims?’ said Murfin. ‘What did Patrick Rawson do that was so great, apart from getting himself killed? Which is something any idiot can do, if you ask me.’

‘What do you mean, Gavin?’ asked Cooper.

‘Well, it beats me why people pop up on TV all the time paying tribute to their relatives just because they’ve died suddenly. Being a victim doesn’t actually make you a more worthwhile person, does it? Not in any form. Getting attacked or killed doesn’t make you brave, or good, or clever. Now, getting through life and not being a victim – that’s something to crow about.’

‘That’s a damn cold way of looking at things.’

‘Cold? It’s reality, mate. Reality always was a bit on the cold side.’

‘Speaking of which, I called by the mortuary this morning,’ said Fry. ‘That’s about as cold as you get.’

‘How is the lovely Dr van Doon?’

‘Helpful as usual. The head injury was the cause of death, as we might have known for ourselves from the start.’

Fry found herself drawn to the list that lay on her desk – the one provided by Mrs Forbes, listing the names of members of the hunt and hunt staff who had been present in the area at the time of Patrick Rawson’s death. She could almost smell the reek of horse manure rising from the sheet of paper. And that was despite the fact it wasn’t even the original but a photocopy.

She ran her finger down to the hunt stewards, alert to any bells that the names might ring. There were six of them, led by chief steward Kevin Bell, also known as Kevin Delaney. Oh, that was a great sign for a start, having an alias. Then came Marcus Webb, Adrian Tarrant, Igoris Morinas … Nice to have a bit of cultural diversity in there, though she wasn’t quite sure what culture Igoris came from. Steward number five was Rob Charlesworth, and finally there was Jake Gleeson.

Well, the Gleesons were very well known. A whole tribe of them lived around Edendale, and every single one had a criminal record by their seventeenth birthday, including the girls. They collected ASBOs the way other families collected tokens from cereal packets. But the Gleesons were inhabitants of the council estates. They were more likely to be driving hot-wired cars around the streets than hacking cross-country in a red jacket and breeches.

But then, maybe social origins didn’t matter when it came to hired heavies.

‘Any theories on who those horse riders were, Diane?’ asked Cooper. ‘Or are you still fixated on members of the Eden Valley Hunt?’

‘I’m not fixated on anyone,’ snapped Fry.

‘Well, I just meant to say –’

‘We’ll have to pursue the usual lines. Don’t forget that forensics show there was some kind of encounter at the field barn. And, most significantly of all, Mr Rawson was running away when he met his death. All of that seems to have been planned. The fatal outcome might have been planned, too.’

The room was silent as she spoke. Cooper was surprised how serious Fry was about this case. In fact, how could she be so sure that Rawson’s death was planned? It wasn’t like her to go out on a limb this way, unless she was desperate to create an impression. Well, Fry had been left in charge of the enquiry so far, and he supposed she was keen to make a success of it. At the moment, everyone seemed determined to make a good impression on the new detective superintendent.

‘So we need to find out who Patrick Rawson was meeting. The appeals should go out today, asking the horse riders to come forward. And, of course, the man who made the 999 call.’

‘Is it likely? He must have something to hide, if only the fact that he lifted Mr Rawson’s phone. And, presumably, his wallet.’

‘It’s possible,’ said Fry stubbornly. ‘Also, anyone who stands to gain from Patrick Rawson’s death becomes a potential suspect from now on. We have to make a start on looking into his financial affairs. First glance suggests they’re going to be complicated. Mr Rawson seems to have had a finger in a lot of pies.’